


Pas De Deux

by ellievolia



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet Dancer Latts, Fluff, Hockey Player Tom, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellievolia/pseuds/ellievolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mike spends half of the song stretching out, testing his amplitude with diagonals before starting to dance proper, pirouettes and pas-chassés through the space.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas De Deux

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little stream-of-consciousness thing I wrote, based on a universe where Latts is studying ballet and paying for it by stripping (I am so tropey, guys, sorry), while Tom is still a hockey player. This is the only thing that would allow itself to be written so I just went with it. 
> 
> It's unbeta'ed so apologies if there are any mistakes, and feel free to let me know about them. If you have concrit, I welcome it.

The room isn’t massively big, but it has the required barres, mirrors, and wooden floor - Mike doesn’t really need much more than that. He just doesn’t have the space in his apartment, and it’s not like he can do this on the club’s stage. 

He half walks, half stretches to the music system set up in a corner of the room, his ballet shoes scraping softly against the oiled floorboards. He takes his time to plug in his iPod and to select the song, letting his mind drift to a place where the movements will come to him more easily. 

Weapon, by Bastille, starts playing throughout the room. The song is one of these that start slow, a violin introducing the melody, before launching itself in a hard rhythm, unforgiving. Mike doesn’t have a choreography but he knows the song, knows the highs and lows, the pauses and bursts of lyrics. 

Mike spends half of the song stretching out, testing his amplitude with diagonals before starting to dance proper, pirouettes and pas-chassés through the space, his eyes closed when he jumps, opening when he lands, on his toes or on his knees, rolling and ignoring the creak of the floorboards under his weight. 

The song ends, the next one queuing up, and Mike doesn’t stop, feeling sweat run down his back. He ditches his shirt after a while, stays in his white cotton track pants, using the small number of moves he’s learned in his crash course in contemporary dance, switching back to ballet, wanting to take up all the space in the room, moving from one end to the other with multiple grand jetés and sauts de chat. 

This song is softer, slower, Jarryd James’ lyrics and melody moving Mike over the floor, barely covering the sound of his steps, quickfire fast. He misses a couple, slides off and almost falls, but just gets back into it, arching his back into a high note, arms thrown to the ceiling. He’s breathing hard at this point, sweat running down his chest, too hot on his skin. God, but he loves this, loves the feeling of being bigger than himself, being centerstage, important, _essential_. 

The clapping coming from the door startles him, and Mike whips around, ready to give hell to whomever is disturbing him - there are rules about training rooms and students are usually good at respecting each other. But as soon as Mike opens his mouth, he closes it, because - it’s not a student. Mike takes the tiny iPod remote he bought ages ago out of his pants waistband and pauses the music. 

Tom’s grinning, looking as absurdly proud as he does anytime he sees Mike dance - on any stage, because it keeps on surprising Mike but Tom really doesn’t give a shit that Mike takes his clothes off for a living, he still thinks it’s beautiful and it’s art and it’s what Mike was made to do. He’s wearing a suit, and Mike’s eyes flick over to the clock mounted on the wall - he’s completely lost track of time, it’s _late_. 

“Shit, sorry,” Mike says, still a little short of breath. 

“What for?” Tom asks, taking a step inside the training room, but stopping as soon as Mike looks down at his shoes, like a warning. Tom laughs, steps back again. 

“I missed your game.” 

“It’s your day off, and your recital is coming up. I didn’t expect you to watch it. I knew you’d be here. I even bought you dinner,” Tom says with another one of his blinding grins, holding up a bag of McDonalds. Mike loves him so much it hurts. 

He steps close, closing a hand on the lapel of Tom’s suit, pulling to make Tom lean down, which he does eagerly enough. Mike kisses him, smiling against Tom’s lips. “Thank you,” he says when he pulls back, going to his bag to grab his towel. He’s so sweaty. “Did you win?”

Tom puffs out his chest. “Yup. I got an assist.”

Mike swipes at Tom’s ass with his towel, laughing. “That’s my boy.” 

Tom yelps as he tries to avoid the towel, stepping away, less graceful in his fancy shoes than he is in his skates. He moves enough to lean against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Should I let you get back to work, or are you coming back with me?” he asks, voice soft. Tom knows how hard you have to work sometimes, he’s had to fight just as much as Mike to get where he is. 

Mike knows he still, at the very least, has to stretch, warm down to avoid cramps and aches in the morning, but he also wants to go back to Tom’s, eat McDonalds in the car, watch highlights of the baseball and fall asleep in a tangle on Tom’s massive couch. Right now, he feels like he could just stretch in the morning and it’ll be worth it. 

But his senior recital _is_ coming up, and he’s still got so much work to do - he’s got a weird mix of songs to show his range, and he’s still stumbling over the fastest parts of his Rachmaninoff section. He can have another solid hour of studio time before security kicks him out, and he drove himself here anyway, so. 

“Maybe I can come over after I’m done?” He offers, eyes turning back to the empty space before him. 

“Sure,” Tom replies, taking a step forward a little hesitantly. “Or - I mean - is it okay if I stay for a bit?”

Mike steps closer again, slow, part of him just basking in the way Tom looks at him with such hunger in his eyes. Tom leans in when Mike gets to him, almost close enough to touch but not quite - he’s still sweaty and unwilling to mess up Tom’s suit. Still, he rolls up on his tiptoes and kisses Tom again, allowing it to get a little deeper than earlier, pressing his fingers to Tom’s jaw in an inhale before pulling away. He takes a sliding step backwards, his feet soundless on the oiled floor. 

“Yeah, okay. But be quiet,” he tells Tom, who slides to the floor like his knees have gone weak. Mike smirks, raises an eyebrow, and starts the music up again.


End file.
